Last Ounce of Courage
by Nicole Harpe
Summary: Back story about an incident during the building of the Project. Sam and Al have an argument that opens up old hurts for both men.


**Last Ounce of Courage**

August in New Mexico was always hot beyond belief, but the unfinished building they worked in was even hotter than outdoors. The sheet metal roof collected heat mercilessly and the electrical work they were doing added its own heat to the place. The thermometer placed in a shaded corner read 104 degrees. The gauge was there to warn the only two people allowed to work under these severe conditions when it was time to leave. Needless to say, neither man paid attention to it. They barely paid attention to the huge stereo speakers continually blaring out the soundtrack to _Man of La Mancha._

A pair of work-booted feet dangled out from an electrical duct eighteen feet above the floor. Admiral Al Calavicci wedged himself inside the duct to finish a difficult connection to a power source. Since Dr. Sam Beckett was six inches taller, forty pounds heavier and far more powerfully built, there was no way his broad athletic shoulders could have gotten into the space and having the small-boned Admiral around proved invaluable. "You get any scrawnier, Al, and we can use you to rod the sewer."

Al yelled back, his gravel voice hollowed by the reverberating aluminum, "You want to try this wiring this?" In a whisper he alone could hear he said, "I hate this tin box." He started working his way out of the tight space and onto the scaffold below him. Dust flew down as he dropped to the platform. His shirt was caked with dry, desert dust. Wiping his eyes, he cracked, "You know what I think, boy genius? I think you succored me into this time travel theory of yours because I fit inside the duct work."

"You found me out. Now, if you're done, get down from there. I need help deciphering this schematic of yours." Al started to climb down the scaffold when his tired foot slipped off the rung and flung him backward, head first toward the floor. Sam dove to break the fall and managed to get under Al a fraction of a second before the older man made contact with the concrete. For his good deed, Sam got a cut lip.

Unscathed, Al rolled off Sam's body and scrambled to his side. "You alright, Sam?"

Holding his hand to his bleeding lip he quipped, "I'm glad you're skinny."

Al looked up and saw just how far he had fallen. "Shit, I could have been killed." He lowered his gaze and stared into the eyes of his savior. "You know, Sam. There's nothing I can say, except I need to get too fat for this."

Sam stood, began to laugh and wiped his mouth. "Back to work, little buddy."

"Little buddy? What the hell are you all of a sudden? The Skipper?"

Sam caught the reference to Gilligan's Island and said, "Let's go find the professor and see if he can figure out your goofy diagrams."

Covering the growing fatigue that helped him lose his footing, he thought aloud, "I'd rather find Ginger or MaryAnn."

With a sigh of resignation, Sam stood up, laughed and looked skyward, "Why me?"

"Because some people have all the luck, Beckett. Some people have all the luck." He put out his hand. "Help me up." The groan that came out of him when he stood was real. Looking up at Sam he said, "Call me an old man if you want, but I need a break. How long have we been working in here? Twenty hours?"

They walked toward a small cooler. "Twenty-six, no make that 27 so far. You want Evian, club soda, or Gatorade?"

He grimaced at the mention of Gatorade. "I'm not thirsty." Plunking himself on the floor, he leaned against the wall. "Twenty-seven hours? Did we get any sleep?" His breathing was heavy and it was plain he was bordering on exhaustion and if Sam would admit it, he was at the same border. Sam brought out two small bottles of the horrendously green liquid and sat next to Al handing him the bottle. Grimacing at the goo Sam was pawning off on him, Al shoved it back saying, "Give me a bottle of water. I can't stomach this crap."

Sam pulled out an Evian and handed it to Al. "Don't drink too fast."

"Yes, Doctor." He sipped at the cool water, but he wasn't able to swallow much. Suddenly, without soldering irons and wiring to distract him, the music far too loud. "Geez, do we have to still listen to that? I mean, I like _Man of La Mancha, _but enough is enough." Sam begged for one more listen through. "Not today, please. And why, kid? Why _Man of La Mancha? _Why not _Showboat_ fora change? I'd even take the Partridge Family at this point. Well, maybe not."

The mention of the Partridge Family sent a chill down Sam's spine. _"Showboat _is great, but it's the song, Al. Can't you see it? You and me, we're Don Quixote and Sancho building my impossible dream."

Al laughed. "Looks to me like it's not so impossible, kid."

They were building his control room. Sam was still amazed that there was something tangible about his dream now. "I don't know, Al. Why should I think I can do this when no one else can?"

His experience told him to trust gut instinct and his instinct told him years earlier that Sam Beckett was a man who could realize dreams. "Well, kid, because **_I_** think you can do it."

It was Sam's turn to laugh. "Just because you think so, it can be done."

"You're not the only one who's had impossible dreams, Beckett." As if on cue, Don Quixote began to sing the impassioned song under discussion.

Sam took in the words of his song and asked, "Really?" With sweat still pouring down his brow and wanting to play games with the Admiral, he started, "What's your impossible dream, Al? I mean, you have any and every woman you could ever want or need. You've flown to the moon and back twice. You're a two star admiral with more fruit salad on your jacket than Schwarzkopf. You've called every president since Gerald Ford by his first name. What impossible dream could you have?"

Al, with a weary sadness, put the nearly full bottle of water on the floor next to him. "Hand me that towel over there." He pointed, "Is that a clean tee shirt?"

Sam picked up the towel and shirt, "Yeah, but it's mine. It's an extra-extra-large."

"I don't care how big it is." Al grabbed the towel and shirt. He poured half the Evian onto the towel and began to wipe the grime from his face. "Geez, it's cold."

"I'm not letting you out of this, Calavicci. What's your impossible dream?" The song ended and he slapped the off button.

"I don't dream any more." He pulled off his dirty tee shirt and unceremoniously tossed it inside a nearby garbage can. He started wiping off layers of dust.

Sam didn't want to stare, but he had to. He never saw the marks on his friend's body before. How could he have missed them? There had to be at least a hundred jagged lines of varying lengths and widths. He whispered in horror, "Oh, God."

Al looked puzzled, "Oh, God, what?" Sam said nothing, but his mouth was hanging open a little and his eyes were full of fear. The Admiral spun, "Sam, are you okay?" Still no sound. "Sam, what's wrong?"

"I never noticed before."

"Noticed what?" Al wasn't sure what he was talking about. Looking over his shoulder he saw the heat and his exertion made his normally pale, practically invisible scars stand out prominently in a crisscross pattern. "Shit." He pulled the clean shirt over his head quickly.

Sam knew Al had been held prisoner for six years in Vietnam. Trying to be sympathetic he offered, "My brother died in Vietnam. Those scars, they did that to you when you were a prisoner there. Didn't they?"

"Drop it, Sam." He hated that his body told tales of his past. Al didn't need to be reminded of the scars. He saw them every day and just when he stopped noticing them, someone had to say something and make him remember again.

But the younger man couldn't let it go. His brother had died trying to save some POWs and Sam still hadn't worked through his pain. His hand touched Al's shoulder. "Tom used to write me about what went on over there."

Al jumped to his feet, biting his tongue and staggering toward the scaffold. "Let's get back to work." Sam didn't see the dizziness in the veteran's eyes.

Trying to lighten the situation, Sam made a wisecrack about the "big POW war hero pulling rank."

Both men were tired beyond exhaustion. The comment backfired and Al's temper blew into an unquestionably angry reaction Sam didn't see coming. "You think you know what it was like in Vietnam because your brother died there. A lot of kids died. Some really, really good kids died on both sides. That happens in war."

Sam was stunned at the tirade. "Look, I'm sorry you were a POW. At least you came home and I'm really glad you did, but Tom didn't. You POWs came home." He walked past Al, brushing against his shoulder like the Admiral wasn't even there.

For some reason, the heat, the arrogance in Sam's voice, his own exhaustion, or some combination Al chose now to vent his rage and pain. He grabbed Sam's arm and spun him around. "I wasn't a POW. I was MIA. There's a big difference. You're a desk jockey. You know nothing about Vietnam and it's better it stays that way because you couldn't handle the truth."

"That's bullshit."

Al cocked his head back and sarcastically said, "Sam, profanity, from you?"

"Don't start." Sam's own anger was building. He was not used to people saying he couldn't understand, not the boy genius, the prodigy everyone knew was the most intelligent person in the world. "I know more than you think. Tom wrote letters. He told me what it was like."

"Tom was a SEAL, wasn't he?" Sam nodded. "Then I gotta tell you, what he wrote you was fairy tales. No SEAL would write the truth to a kid in Moose Bluff, Iowa."

"Elk Ridge, Indiana, and my brother wouldn't lie to me. Tom told me about it. You weren't the only one there and you didn't die in some swamp."

"Some of us weren't lucky enough to die."

Now Sam was fuming. His brother died and Al came home. "You saying Tom was lucky?"

"Maybe he was. You don't know the number of times I wished I had his luck. You know nothing and it's better that way.

He heard his words and though he knew he should say nothing, he couldn't help himself. The words came out sounding exactly like what they were, a petty attempt to prove himself smarter than the Admiral. "Hey, I'm the one with six doctorates. Not you."

Sam might be a genius, but he needed to find out there was a lot to learn and the time was now. Al squared his shoulders, zeroed in and began, "Alright, smart boy, what's it like to be thrown in a pit for a week? Mud up over your knees, mud and a lot of shit and I mean real shit." He looked into Sam's eyes. "What do the slugs crawling up your legs taste like? You know, they're not like the roaches. Roaches crunch." Al began to breathe even more heavily. "Tell me something, hotshot, you think you're thirsty now? Ever been so thirsty you drank your own piss because you knew it was cleaner than the water?" Al's anger continued to build. "Have you ever been beat you so long you can't remember what day it is?" He sputtered, "The day? Can't remember the God damn month or your own God damn name!"

Sam glared at Al to prove he could understand, but each challenge made him feel smaller. He wanted Al to stop, but the tirade went on. "Ever been whipped till you're covered in blood, and then get thrown into a locked box with a load of leeches? A box, damn it, not a cell. It was four by four, maybe 18 inches high and tin, just like that fucking duct." He looked up and the ductwork morphed into his prison. "But, I was small, about 90 pounds by then. Plenty of room for me and maybe three, four dozen little bloodsuckers having dinner. Nice accommodations, for a summer day in Nam. You think it's hot in here? Hot in that duct up there? You don't know hot until they fry you out."

Al's eyes grew glassy and vacant. Anger had morphed the hot and cramped working conditions at Quantum Leap into recollections of incredible terror in Vietnam. Sam became disturbed by the change. His friend was telling the untellable and Sam's anxiety grew. It didn't help when Al planted an index finger hard against Sam's temple. "Do you know what it's like to have some kid play Russian roulette with the gun at your head?" He shouted, "Bang!" and then quietly said, "and no bullet even when I prayed for one. The little bastard got his, though. I killed him." Al's posture changed. He wasn't in control anymore. His eyes were in Vietnam. In a voice suddenly weak and nervous, "He couldn't have been more than 15, just a kid. Probably a good kid, too. What do you think about that? I killed a child with my bare hands."

Sam had nothing to say. The disturbing silence between them declared truths Al had never spoken before and Sam had never imagined, could never imagine.

The voice was shaky and frightening. "Know what a rat bite feels like? Or you get staked out under the sun so long you can't feel your arms and legs, but at least that's better than the pain. Your eyes swell up so bad you can't see." Heavy deep breaths were becoming short and irregular. The misery, the memories were still there. "Or when the only thing that feels cool is the blood evaporating off your back when they split your skin open with bamboo cane." Only intense exhaustion allowed him to reveal these agonies. "You're a farm boy. Ever use a cattle prod?"

Sam whispered, "No. My dad said they were inhumane."

He mocked, "'Inhumane.' They used them on me a lot, up and down my spine, on my dick. That was a lot of fun." His hand went shakily to his face. "You can hardly see where they exploded my teeth. The Navy has good dentists." Both hands pressed against his face trying to stem the words that brought back the memories, but the damn had burst and with fatigue burning a hole in his consciousness, he had no choice. The words continued to spill.

He stopped briefly, out of breath, but needing to tell. With a face completely devoid of spirit, like a battered child in search of lost innocence, he faced Sam. "You want to see scars? Look at my hands." Trembling palms were held out to his friend. Fear made Sam turn away. Anger made Al grab Sam's wrist and pull him around. "Don't turn your back on me!" He held on until Sam's fingers paled. The younger man stared into Al's face with a whimpering, fearful plea for release. When realization set in, Al dropped the arm and it was his turn to back away. He didn't believe he was saying these things out loud.

It was one of the hardest things Sam had ever done, but he went to Al and gingerly took the quaking hands into his. Scars marked both Al's palms and the backs of his hands, small, round, jagged ridges. Al looked at the floor. "They saw my crucifix. I only wore it because Beth asked me to." He took back his hands and walked a few steps, making a safer distance between him and his confessor, a distance that allowed him to continue the story of his crucifixion. "They tied ropes around me first, around my chest and over my shoulders. The rope carried most of my weight. See, that way, I wouldn't die." He started to laugh. "They got a Jewish Marine to pound in the nails. Pretty funny, huh?" The laughter tapered off, " I know he was only saving his ass. Hell, I would have done it to him too, but God, I hated him. He probably hated himself. I worry about him sometimes. I hope he doesn't . . . Never mind."

Leaning against the wall, his head down the Admiral continued, "1 hanged there on the cross I think it was two days. I'm not sure. I know it rained. I remember trying to catch the rain in my mouth. That stinking jungle sun, it had to be more than two days. God, I can't remember." He put a hand to his eyes and sank to the floor, completely drained of energy. Sam was dizzy from the images, from the complete ugliness man was capable of and from the recognition that this man had to deal not only with the descriptions, but also with the actualities.

Minutes passed in gruesome silence. The Admiral regained his composure, speaking softly in a voice wearied by years of keeping secrets, "So, you still think you know it all?" With that, Sam shook his head, grabbed at his stomach and managed to reach the garbage just in time to eject all the Gatorade he just swilled. Al looked away and started to shake. "Yeah, I did a lot of that too. Usually after the eating the food they gave us. You know, the slugs tasted better." Sam started crying quietly and Al, who never did handle tears well, said, "Don't worrykid. I resurrected." Sam managed a short, snorting laugh through his crying. "Feeling better?" Sam nodded and wiped his face. "Puking always made me feel better, too."

Still on the floor the Admiral sidled over to the cooler and pulled out an Evian. "Here, drink this. It won't come up on you like that green junk." Sam took the offering and sat next to Al who lay back against the wall, tired beyond description. The cool water tasted good.

Al finally found the present reality, returned from Vietnam and apologized, "Listen, I didn't really mean you wouldn't understand the truth about Vietnam. Thing is, you shouldn'thave to know it. No one should, not even me. I use everything I can to break away from it." He smiled despite his shivering and continued, "Mr. Smart Guy quantum physicist, think about my habits and the things I like. Things like women. There's not a one on earth that isn't a glory from God. Good single malt scotch, which, thanks to you, I can enjoy and not abuse. Expensive, hand-rolled cigars. Clothes that aren't camouflage. Music that has no purpose other than to make you want to dance. You can't believe I think disco is good music. It's all superficial and that's what I want. I want every damn superficiality I can find. The real world is lousy and I've had enough of it."

"I don't know anything about life." Al started to laugh. It got bigger and bigger until it filled the empty room and infected Sam. He started to laugh with Al and after a few seconds, another outrageous snort bellowed from Sam's face. They laughed for almost as much time as they argued. Then it stopped. Sam stared at the man lying on the floor, eyes closed against the harsh lights. "I've got a lot to learn. Al, I really love you."

"I'm a lousy teacher." He gulped in his breath and looked right at best friend, "Back at you, kid. I never said that to any man before and no one will ever hear it again, not even you.

Sam pointed to his head, "Photographic memory. I can't forget and I won't let you forget either." He leaned back on his hands.

"Could 1 forget the day I got you to barf?" A second of silence and they started laughing again, but Al's shaking worsened dramatically. Finally Sam realized something wrong was happening. Slipping into MD mode, he put his hand against Al's forehead. The Admiral pulled back. It was painfully obvious to Sam that Al was running far too hot. "We need to get you out of here and back to your quarters."

There was no time for being tired. He was going to work on. "The wiring's not done, yet."

"So what?" He helped Al to his feet. The Admiral was far too pale and while Sam was dripping with sweat, Al was dry as a bone. "Why didn't I see this before?"

The Admiral had no energy left to deal with Sam's need to reminisce. "Don't start again, please."

"No, not that. I'm sweating like a pig. Look at you. Not a bead of perspiration."

"So?" Breathing was getting harder.

"It's called heat stroke. You got to get out of here. You need a cool environment and fluids now."

Sam locked up the top secret room and they started back toward their air-conditioned quarters. Al's normally light step was dragging and heavy, but every plodding footfall was well-earned. His eyes had trouble focusing. "Sam, maybe you need a younger man to help you out here."

"Are you crazy? No one believes in Quantum Leap the way you do. Probably not even me. This is impossible without you." The older man's steps slowed even more. Sam turned in concern. "Al, are you okay?"

"I'm just tired, kid. I don't think I can. . ." and he dropped to the floor unconscious and shaking violently with fever. Sam didn't bother waiting for help. He picked up the Admiral and ran toward the infirmary. Hired earlier in the month, Dolores Soto, an experienced Navy nurse assembled the sickbay to Sam's very rigid specifications. He charged in yelling instructions, "Start a saline IV and a get a cooling blanket. Then we need draw blood."

Without a word, the 56 year old woman slipped into triage mode. Al's violent shivering made inserting the IV difficult, but she did it and drew three vials of blood. Sam pulled off the heavy boots and stripped the Admiral down to his shorts. Like Sam, Dolores couldn't help but notice the hundreds of scars. As she took his blood pressure she said, "Look what they did to him. That's what you get for being MIA. Pressure is 90 over 55." She placed the thermometer in Al's ear for a reading, "105.2. Should I start a diazepam drip?"

"I'll start the diazepam. You get the cooling blanket."

She pulled the blanket from a cabinet and as they prepared it for the Admiral, Sam thought he'd better warn the nurse about Al's reticence regarding his imprisonment. "Don't bring up Vietnam. It was a bad time for him."

Dolores laid the blanket over Al so gently carefully, like a mom tucking in her sick boy. "Talking is what helped me get over the war."

"You were there?"

"I knew the Admiral when he was just a shavetail. We met three months before he got shot down. I thought he died." She slipped a nasal canula over Al's face and started oxygen. "It wasn't until he flew for NASA that I knew he made it out alive. Surprised the hell out of me, that's for sure." Her movement never stopped and she started slowly massaging Al's legs, trying to revive his circulation. "How did this happen?"

"We were doing some wiring in the control room. He was packed inside the duct work near the ceiling for over three hours." All that could be done had been done. It was all up to Al's body now. He needed to cool off. Sam sat down exhausted in a chair near the triage gurney. Looking over at the Admiral, he saw the scars, rough-edged round scars on both feet, made when Al was nailed to a cross for the amusement of his captors. It took all Sam's resolve not to puke again.

Dolores monitored Al's temperature every five minutes. Twenty minutes later, Al's body started cooling down. "Thataboy, Admiral." She patted his arm and turned her attention to Sam. "Dr. Beckett, go take care of yourself now. I'll look after the tunnel rat."

"I'm just going to go get cleaned up. Call me if you need me." He really didn't want to leave Al, but Dolores was more than capable and a shower sounded good. Somehow the ugliness of the Admiral's incarceration had to be washed away. A shower might just be a start. As he left, Sam made a mental note to ask Dolores what a tunnel rat was.

His quarters were a few levels away and Sam took his time getting there. It gave him a spell to think. Maybe, in some ways, his brother Tom did have it easier. According to the Navy reports, Tom died instantly when a sniper ambushed him. Al had been brought to the edge of death time after time and never given the respite death brings. Tom was a victim of war. Al was a victim of human evil. There was no reason to nail him to a cross other than to watch his agony grow as the days passed. Sam knew about the Admiral's private hell now and knowing Al, he felt that might make distance between them. There was already this feeling creeping into Sam, a feeling of awe. Al wouldn't want that, though. It would take effort, but Sam promised himself he and Al would only be closer, if that were possible.

Five hours later, Sam felt like a new man. It's amazing what a little sleep, a clean body, and some real food did for a person. He heard nothing from the infirmary and concluded Dolores had things under control. Just to be sure, he called in. "How's the Admiral?"

"He woke up about an hour and a half ago. Jake Conroy and I got him changed into a hospital gown and transferred into a bed instead of that gurney. He's sleeping again."

Sam was worried about brain damage. High fevers were notorious for causing a lot of unforeseen problems. "How was he? Was he coherent?"

Dolores laughed, "As coherent as he ever is."

That was good news. He sighed and asked, "Still pushing saline?"

"Yes. His temp is 103.5 and has been for almost an hour. His blood pressure is low, but stable. He couldn't take anything by mouth. He's still shivering."

"Increase the diazepam by half a milligram per minute."

"I was hoping you'd say that. I think we should leave the saline in until his temp is down below 101.5. I know the usual cut-off is higher, but he's taking his own sweet time to cool down. I'm a little concerned about his lungs. I'm hearing some fluid buildup. He's very dehydrated. We weighed him and he's lost eight and a half pounds since his physical a week ago."

Fluid in the Admiral's lungs wasn't good. It could be the beginning of respiratory distress and that was something they couldn't handle where they were. "Do another blood gas just to make sure his levels are right. Increase the volume on his oxygen."

"Already did, right after you left, actually. I'm sorry if I overstepped my authority."

"It was exactly the right call. I trust your judgment." Having said that he continued, "I'm going to get a little more sleep myself. You need someone to cover the infirmary for you?"

"Jake is here now and Carol Marker starts at midnight."

Hiring good people, gives you a chance to relax, but Sam really wanted to be there. Instead he said, "It sounds like everything is under control. Try to get some food in him when he wakes up. Good calories. He'll want something horrible, I'm sure, but maybe something like spaghetti, some good carbs."

"Don't worry. I'll get him eating. Personally, I'd like to see him start to drink some water on his own." She was a good nurse and not an alarmist. "He'll be fine."

The Admiral was in good hands. He knew that, but Sam just wanted to see him. "I may come down to see how he's doing. Do you mind?"

"Not at all, Dr. Beckett." With a relaxed chuckle she said, "I know he wants to talk to you."

Sam knew what she meant. "He's a little perturbed I brought him down there, right?"

"That's our boy. Oh-oh. He's starting to get a little restless here. I'll see you later." Dolores hung up with nothing else being said.

The abruptness of her departure made Sam question what was happening. It would be easier to just go there and check on Al before he settled in for the night. He didn't want to rush down as if he didn't trust Dolores, so nonchalantly he strolled down to the infirmary and found Dolores with hands on her hips and a glare in her eye. She talked to Sam. "You want to hear this? His temp dropped only another three tenths, the chills are back big time and he wants to leave!"

Sam smiled at his recovering friend and sat by the bedside. Al was trying hard not to give in to the shaking his body was doing. "You be nice to her, Admiral."

"Why?"

If Al didn't hear how thin his voice sounded, Sam certainly did. "Because she has the unenviable job of taking care of you. You're pretty sick."

Dolores smiled at Sam. "I'll try to find him something to eat." She walked away.

"Attila the nurse gone?"

Hearing Al crack a joke made Sam feel better. "How are you?"

"Tired and damn cold."

"Yeah, well, trust me, you're not cold. Your temperature was over 105 a few hours ago. I ran some computations and according to all the data, it was 128 degrees in that duct by the time you popped out. You could have died."

Much ado about nothing is how the Admiral felt. "So I got hot. I'm Italian. We're always hot."

"You're always over-heated, but that's a different issue." It was time to get serious, though. "Listen up. You will stay in this infirmary at least two days and obey Nurse Dorothy. After that, you're strictly confined to air-conditioned rooms for at least a week or more. No more crawling inside ductwork either, ever again. "

"Now I'm useless to you."

He shook his head and knew the truth even if Al didn't. "No, you're not. It's just time for a vacation. You earned it. So have I."

Al stared into space. His tired mind tried to figure out the events of the day. "God, I don't remember what we were doing."

Sam wanted to be certain his friend's unique brain was undamaged. "Remember anything?"

Al had to concentrate in order to bring up any memory of the last hour before his collapse. He closed his eyes and took an unsteady, deep breath. The recollections came to him. He sighed and said, "1 told you things I shouldn't have."

Sam wanted to talk about Al's experiences, but the Admiral was shivering and still running too hot. "You told me things that were hard to hear." Al's eyes were closed, but still he turned his head away from Sam. "Maybe you ought to talk to someone about it. What they did was inhuman. Verbena Beeks will be here in a few weeks. You know she's the best."

"Nothing of consequence happened in Vietnam."

Sam exhaled loudly, "Don't you dare tell me that what happened was of no consequence."

"I don't need a pep talk." The lie was weak, but not as weak as the Admiral. Weary eyes slowly opened. "I'm sorry."

"About what?"

He made a point to look directly at the young scientist. The words were hard to say both physically and emotionally. "Your brother. No one should have died there."

"Or been beaten and tortured. How did you stay alive?"

He answered with a lie, "Too stupid to die." Fever and exhaustion closed his eyes.

Sam whispered, "Thank God." Al was starting to nod off. "Get some sleep." He put his hand on Al's arm. He could still feel the fever and the trembling, but Al's breathing evened out in a rhythm of rest. Sam was pleased. In his head he heard _the_ _Impossible Dream_ and finally felt he truly understood "that one man, scorned and covered with scars, still strove with his last ounce of courage to reach the unreachable stars." His own eyes began to close and within a few moments, he fell asleep next to his friend.


End file.
